Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“It was wonderful, though,” Naomi said quickly. She wanted to leave a good impression. “Thank you, Mrs. Harper.”

The other woman beamed as she cleared the plates. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, dear. And please, call me Julie.”

Naomi had to smile. Even though Julie Harper was clearly shy of her forty-fifth birthday, her personality seemed to be that of a woman years older. It wasn’t a bad thing, but Naomi couldn’t help feeling slightly awkward; it was strange being called “dear” by a woman barely ten years her senior.

She turned and followed the two men up the stairs. Jonathan Harper led them into a wood-paneled study. It was a distinctly masculine room, with leather club chairs, an enormous desk in the corner, and Persian carpets scattered across the floor. Harper gestured for them to sit and went to his desk, retrieving the suitcase he had taken from the Suburban earlier. As he opened it and pulled out a number of documents, Julie entered with coffee on a tray. She deposited it on the center table, pausing to rest a light hand on Kealey’s shoulder. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

“Okay,” Harper said, settling into a free chair. “Where to begin, that’s the question.”

Naomi jumped on the opening. “Sir, what about the woman? Liz Peterson said she was going to send you the surveillance photographs from London.”

Harper nodded and slid a number of 8 x 10s across the table. Naomi picked them up and began perusing them instantly, handing some of them off to Ryan. “Do we know who she is?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t,” Harper replied. He started to pour black coffee into one of the mugs. “We ran her through our facial recognition software, which, as you know, is similar to that used by MI5. We had one hit, but it only came back with nine markers. That’s a forty percent match… not exactly definitive.”

“Not definitive, maybe, but it’s a start,” Naomi said, trying to remain optimistic. “Who came up?”

Harper handed her another photograph. “Samara Majid al-Khuzaai, thirty-eight years old, a Sunni born in Baghdad. Her father was part of the Special Republican Guard, Saddam’s innermost circle. The 1st Brigade, responsible for security. He was arrested in Najaf shortly after the invasion, and he didn’t go quietly. As they pulled him out of the house he was hiding in, he started screaming that it wasn’t over, that his daughter would carry on the fight. Even though it was made in the heat of the moment, the remark prompted a brief investigation. As it turned out, he only had one child, and that was Samara.”

Naomi looked at the two photographs. She studied al-Khuzaai’s face, then the surveillance photos of Vanderveen’s traveling companion. The two women did not look that similar.

She handed the shots to Kealey and said, “What does that mean, ‘carry on the fight’? Was that a legitimate threat?”

“It’s hard to say,” Harper replied. “But she isn’t in custody, and she hasn’t shown up in Jordan or Syria looking for political asylum. The Middle East desk at the CTC seems to think she’s still in Iraq, working with the insurgency.”

Kealey looked up from the photographs. “I don’t think it’s the same person, John. Is this our best guess?”

Harper sipped some of his coffee and hesitated. “Well, some of the analysts brought up Nouri Hussein, but they tend to do that whenever a photograph like this pops up.”

“Nouri Hussein?” Naomi asked. “You don’t mean…”

“Nouri Saddam Hussein. His fourth daughter.”

Naomi was amazed, and let it show. “I thought she was a myth.”

“She is,” Kealey put in, his voice laced with disgust. “Her very existence is based on a single document.”

“What document?”

“A letter,” Kealey specified. “It was found in a house in Tikrit in 2003, typed and addressed to ‘Nouri, my dearest and eldest.’ It was signed at the end, supposedly by Saddam. Handwriting experts were brought in to verify its authenticity, but they couldn’t reach any firm conclusions.”

“What about photographs? Has anyone-”

“No photos have ever turned up,” Harper said, cutting her off. “The letter is the only evidence of her existence.”

“And that isn’t evidence,” Kealey snapped. “I’m telling you, John, you need to put those analysts in their place. They’re letting their imaginations get the best of them. Nouri Hussein does not exist, and the name does nothing but distract them from workable leads.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Harper said, “but it doesn’t really matter at this point. We have no idea where the woman is, anyway. When we find Vanderveen, we’ll find her. Until that time, learning her identity is not a priority.”

He paused, then said, “I do, however, have another piece of information you might find interesting.”

This was what Kealey had been waiting for. He felt himself shift forward on the warm leather chair. “The Iranian informant?”

“That’s right. His name is Hakim Ghasem Rudaki, a native of Tehran. He’s forty-two years old, a Harvard grad, and a visiting professor at Columbia. He’s also heavily involved with the National Iranian American Council in New York.” Harper paused. “Rudaki approached the Bureau several months ago, and the decision was made to hear him out. He passed on some low-grade intelligence at first, but it all checked out, so he was given more attention.”

“How did you get this information?” Kealey asked.

“One of the agents at the New York office wasn’t buying into what Rudaki was saying, so he started complaining to anyone who would listen. Last night he relayed his concerns to his former supervisor at the Los Angeles field office.” Harper smiled. “My old college roommate.”

“So who’s running Rudaki in New York?” Naomi asked.

Harper’s face turned grim. “Since the end of August, he’s been dealing with just one person. Special Agent Samantha Crane.”

Kealey sprung to his feet and swore loudly, causing Naomi to jump in her seat. “That bitch. I knew it. I knew there was something about her… She’s working with Vanderveen, John. She has to be.”

The other man nodded slowly. “I know it looks that way, but we can’t jump to conclusions. Let’s think it through, and then we’ll decide how to handle it.” He gestured to the empty seat. “Come on, sit down.”

Kealey took his seat and fell silent, but the furious expression was fixed on his face. It was Naomi who said, “Sir, Rudaki is the same man who predicted the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, right?”

“No,” Harper said. “He predicted the attempt on the life of Nuri al-Maliki, but he was wrong about the place and time. Just like he was wrong about the place and time with Nasir Tabrizi.”

“Quite a coincidence,” Kealey said sarcastically. “He knew the targets, but nothing else. I don’t buy it. I never did.”

“Neither do I,” Naomi put in.

“That makes three of us,” Harper said. “Rudaki was very quick to blame the Iranian government for the Babylon Hotel and the shooting in Paris. A little too quick, if you ask me.”

“Where is Rudaki getting his information?” Kealey asked.

“His cousin is Reza Bagheri, the Syrian defense minister. According to Rudaki, his cousin is displeased with the actions of the government. Bagheri believes Ahmadinejad is making a mistake by trying to subvert U.S. policy in Iraq, and he’s worried that U.S. troops will invade Iran if the regime’s true role in Tabrizi’s assassination is discovered. Obviously, that would mean a much larger U.S. military presence in the region, which is the last thing Bagheri wants. Of course, he can’t exactly talk to us directly, so Rudaki is his mouthpiece.”